Gazans killed, every day, every hour.
You tell me you "know.
"But, what to do?"
Say every minute is given a name,
The name of a murdered Palestinian.
That would be something to do.
A clockwork commemoration.
But how could this not swiftly become,
Like all clockwork, acknowledged
And then, minute for minute, unheard?
Or perhaps one day of the year,
When each named minute is spoken out loud?
But to have to wait so long.
Instead, more traditionally,
Permanent etching of rock or metal,
Purpose-made walls, or towers,
Inscribed with all those names.
Like clockwork, eventually,
Every individual name is lost,
Except to the name-sharers
Standing before their name,
Most likely weeping,
Or vowing whatever it is one vows
To the murdered bearers of your name.
But if that name no longer exists,
If everyone who bore it is gone,
A minute will never be enough
To remember them, each killed.
Every day, every hour, Gazans killed.
Who will know as the minutes pass,
Too short a time, too swift,
To hold the full report of a life?
We must.